


Updating the Arrangement

by Berenos



Series: Updating the Arrangement [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bat-betaed, Betaed, Don't copy to another site, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, God does what they want, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, NOW BETAED, Slice of Life, Snippets, Unreliable Narrator, Until it isn't, What-If, but it's low-key, listen the 6000 years slow-burn is nice but here's a baby because you morons can't take a hint, oops there's plot, set in the 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-08 12:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19869802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berenos/pseuds/Berenos
Summary: What could have happened if Crowley encountered the surplus baby on his way to the exit.Betaed by the terrificBatrael!Now complete! Sorry, tried to do something small and sweet but it kinda got out of hands.





	1. Retrieval

Contrary to what the sisters of St. Beryl’s Chattering Order announced, Mrs. Dowling gave birth to a red-faced, wispy-haired baby girl – however, as they planned to swap her with their Lord’s son she was, therefore, pronounced a him. Mrs. Harriet was too exhausted and dazed by some clever ‘smelling salts’ at the time to pay the due attention and, with anyone else but the Mother Superior and Theresa Garrulous banned from the actual birth, nobody noticed anything amiss; everything was going, so far, according to the plan.

Well, except that their special delivery seemed to be running a bit late. It was with great trepidation that Sister Theresa chattered time away while enduring the baby’s fury – the newborn hadn’t stopped wailing since she drew in her first breath, and the screaming had only gotten worse when the nun had promptly absconded with her to clean “him”, as if the babe somehow suspected nefarious things were afoot. In the end, she had to be wheeled back into room 4, where the two women in charge of Mrs. Dowling hovered anxiously while they waited.

In another world, the baby with the white blanket would have perished in a mysterious fire scant hours after being born, unaccounted for and forgotten. In this one, it was those wails, when everything was said and done – not quite as the Chattering Order or the forces Below had intended, as they would discover eleven years from then on –, that caught the attention of the demon acting the part of Mr. Stork that very night, on the way to the exit.

Yellow, slit-pupiled eyes peered at the furious creature from behind the safety of dark sunglasses, equal parts fascinated and annoyed with its lung capacity. “And what is going to happen to this one?” he asked with a practiced disinterested drawl. “Oh, she is going to give her life to our Lord, master Crowley.” The nun replied with a sunny smile, radiating glee and joy at the prospect.

It is worth to note that, what Sister Theresa meant to say was that they had every intention of raising the babe as a proud member of the Order, but the unfortunate wording had the demon still momentarily in silent, secret horror before a familiar wicker basket materialized in an outstretched hand.

“In that case,” he began smoothly “let me do the honors.” He wasted no time placing the leftover baby inside, blanket and all. “Don’t worry, I’ll… ‘take care’ of it.”

As another side note, by the ‘taking care of it’ the woman understood that the remaining baby would end up as a sacrifice, but a sharp-toothed smile silenced any protests she could have had.

That is how the demon Crowley sauntered out of Tadfield Manor just like he had entered, with a wicker basket in hand and thoughts flying a mile per hour. Even though there was no one around, the demon clung to a devil-may-care façade until he was in the safety of the Bentley, where yet another round of sibilant ‘shit, shit, shit’ joined the baby’s wails before he ignited the car and began the journey back to London. Not bothering to even slowing down, the redhead took hold of the car phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Call Aziraphale.” he ordered with a hiss.

‘My life has been saved’ started to play on its own and, finally, the newborn succumbed to exhaustion, staying that way even when the driver began to curse anew after the call failed to make it through, all thanks to some of his own demonic activity earlier that day.


	2. Arrival

Somewhere in Soho, in a very particular bookshop, a certain Principality was trying to comfort himself with a cup of hot chocolate and failing miserably – not because he didn’t enjoy the drink, oh no, but the sudden visit of his boss and the reason of said visit had been particularly unsettling. One could say, even, upsetting. To think, that the End was nearing and worse, Crowley might possibly be involved…!

The first thing he had done after returning to his beloved shop and hanging his coat had been putting on some good, classical music, but instead of calming down the angel had ended up pacing, waiting… _waiting_ , and had gotten himself so worked up that he resolved some hot chocolate was in order.

For the umpteenth time, he eyed speculatively the pile of prophetic works by his desk, mouth set in a thin line. Even though most of them agreed that there was an End, each one pointed out their own respective End, and most of the prophecies were inaccurate in one way or the other – never mind that most agreed upon the cause of said End.

“Perhaps”, he mused to himself softly, “it is a mistake. A clerical error, as it were. Hopefully Upstairs will notify me of it.” Grey eyes gazed upwards as he rubbed his hands worriedly, until he reminded himself how unsightly that was and settled to fiddle with his golden ring instead. “Preferably soon.”

As if on cue, the door to his shop opened. To his dismay, it was not an indeterminate angel sent to settle his worries but a familiar redhead who slipped inside.

“Aziraphale! It’s me.” Crowley greeted hurriedly, bright red hair moving this way and that as he peered out of the windows until he miracled all the blinds down.

“What are you doing here? And with a basket? Now is not exactly the best time for a picnic-“ The demon didn’t bother with a reply, and strolled in as easy as you please, taking his time to check that there was nobody else in the vicinity as he strutted further in to set the basket on top of the desk. Then, he began to root about the many hidey holes spread about the back of the bookshop, weaving around the multiple book stacks as if it were second nature.

Becoming more and more confused by the second, the angel approached the basket curiously, all the while tracking the other entity’s movements from the corner of his eyes. Just when he was about to lift one of the lids, Crowley asked “Do you still have that Du Pape bottle?”

The angel withdrew the hand that had been reaching out as if burnt, feeling strangely guilty. Aziraphale clasped both hands after needlessly smoothing down his shirt. “Bottom drawer to the right. The _other_ right, dear.” The demon let out a victorious hiss when he found the wine, followed by a “And what’s this? Egri Bikaver… You’re coming with me, too.”

Wordlessly, Crowley handed him a wineglass and, instead of using the nice corkscrew Aziraphale kept for such occasions, the demon uncorked one of the bottles cradled to his chest with his teeth – at least he had the decency to drop the cork in the angel’s proffered hand instead of remaining loyal to the initial intention of spitting it _somewhere_. Crowley served both their glasses generously, set the bottles on the desk beside the basket and then sprawled himself on the nearest somewhat flat surface. Aziraphale followed his lead expectantly, sitting primly on his favorite chair.

The demon took his time, drinking a big gulp of wine followed closely by an even bigger second, before rasping out “Guess who was the unlucky bastard tasked with the glorious purpose of delivering the Antichrist?” An alarmed once-over from the angel had him shake his head with a disgusted shudder. “Not deliver _deliver_! Just. Hand him over.” He chased away the offending thought with what little wine remained in his glass.

Just at that exact moment, a lone gurgle broke through air, and both celestial beings set their eyes on the seemingly innocent container on the desk, one defeatedly resigned, the other with growing alarm. The demon’s pleading gaze did nothing to placate the angel’s outburst.

“You brought the Antichrist to my bookshop!?”


	3. Temptation

The long, ear-splitting wail that ensued made Aziraphale flinch guiltily – it was a long, drawn out cry that tugged at his heartstrings, but he had to remind himself that _that_ was no ordinary newborn. Strange, because the only ‘evil’ to be felt around belonged to his demonic counterpart.

The angel watched with apprehension as said demon walked over to the basket and reached for the infant, cooing soft little hisses to calm him that threatened his ethereal resolve even further. To tell the truth, the babe looked so innocent and pure in his friend’s arms, it was hard to imagine that he would destroy the world in the future.

Aziraphale steeled himself with a deep breath. “Crowley, you know what his arrival means, this child _cannot_ stay _here_.” he said firmly, but continued with a softer “Can’t you… send him back?”

Instantly, the soft openness that had minutely graced Crowley’s face disappeared behind an annoyed sneer. “For fuck’s sake, angel, this is not _him_!” He hissed, and shoved the baby towards the blonde, who clutched him to his shoulder with no small amount of trepidation – he was so small and delicate, not to mention squirmy. What if he applied too much strength? What if he dropped him?

“Wait. He’s not?” Aziraphale asked in befuddlement, but directed a tiny smile to the not-Antichrist, who had been bit bothered with the abrupt change but was overall enchanted with the angel’s natural pleasant disposition. Unable to resist, Aziraphale allowed himself to stroke one of his chubby cheeks with a finger, light as a feather, and tiny lips stretched and parted to show pink, toothless gums; the angel beamed in return.

“No, _she_ is not. This,” the demon gestured flamboyantly at their general direction “is the surplus baby.”

“Surplus baby…?” the angel repeated, befuddled, and the demon nodded impatiently. “Yes. Big thing. American ambassador’s wife goes into labor, oh no, the base is not ready, our man mentions this hospital just down the road… and we swap her little bundle of joy with our little bundle of doom.” Aziraphale scoffed at that, appalled. “As if Armageddon were a cinematographic production to be promoted worldwide.”

The baby in his arms squirmed again, and he gazed down at her in compassion. “Oh. Oh, you poor dear,” he lamented as he patted her lightly “and what’s going to happen to you?”

When no answer came, he lifted his head towards Crowley and, noticing his expectant look, the angel spluttered. “Absolutely not! She belongs with a proper, _human_ family!”

The demon groaned at that, exasperated, and took off his sunglasses to pin the angel with a pointed stare. “Look, they were going to kill her, what was I supposed to do?” Aziraphale grimaced but remained stubbornly silent, so the demon continued. “All I’m saying is, she could stay with you, here, until we find a more… suitable solution. Besides, how hard can it be? Humans have been taking care of babies for thousands of years with no problem. Can’t be that difficult.”


	4. Christening

Since they didn’t want to catch any unwanted attention from their respective offices, it was decided that the fewer miracles used for the baby’s temporary accommodations, the better, which meant visiting an inordinate amount of shops first thing the next morning. And babies, it turned out, were complicated creatures that belonged on a category entirely of their own that needed a myriad of things such as hypoallergenic fabrics, diapers, a special milk formula, carriers, powder and other thingamajigs neither entity was entirely sure what their purpose was.

Aziraphale was particularly enthused with the purchase of a cheery rubber duck, never acknowledging the fact that, by the time the baby would get to enjoy it, she would be in the care of a loving, human family. For his part, Crowley had a grand time generally making a nuisance of himself, swapping price tags and disorganizing items at random when nobody was looking.

“So, listen.” Crowley began, trailing after the angel, who hummed inquiringly as he rearranged the many tomes stacked above his shop to make room. Given how he was with his precious books, the demon had, at first, entertained himself via watching the baby but, since that all she did when not screaming to the top of her little lungs was sleeping, his mind had inevitably wandered to the _other_ baby, and what he would do in the future, _if_ nothing changed.

The beginnings of a plan took root, and the anxiety that had only been held at bay with more immediate concerns gave way to determination – but he still had to get Aziraphale on board, so he needed to be careful on how to present the first seeds so they could find purchase in the angel’s mind. Nonchalantly, he picked one of the volumes on top of a pile to leaf through it, and went on “I’ve been thinking, we need to make an important decision.”

The book was gently taken from his hands, and the demon lifted his head to receive the full, reproachful glare of its owner, but was immediately thrown off when he just beamed at him. “Oh, I know.” Crowley gave him a puzzled look and, feeling wrongfooted, spluttered a bit before he managed a questioning “You do?”

It couldn’t be _that_ easy, could it?

“Yes. It sure was an oversight on our part.” Aziraphale announced with that righteous tone of his, the one reserved for job-related tirades about good and evil, and Crowley let himself hope. “The little darling cannot remain nameless, it’s just not proper.” Somehow, the demon thought, he should have seen it coming.

“Names. Right.” Crowley deadpanned.

Pursing his lips, he glanced at the babe dozing in the basket, all wrinkle-faced and skin still a bit too red. After his absolute refusal to let the angel buy a frog cap for reasons that should have been obvious, the blonde had apparently settled for a cat one, with cute, tiny ear shapes on the top and an unnecessary amount of fluff all over it.

It was horrid in his opinion, but better than the alternative or, Satan forbid, something _tartan_.

“She looks like a Goblin to me.” He offered offhandedly.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, aghast. “Ah, no, that one’s mine, I’m not sharing it.” The redhead replied with a smirk. “How about Ripper?”

“Let’s keep to proper names, please. If you insist to be this obtuse, I’ll have no choice but ignore you.” The blonde directed a glace upwards, deep in though. “How about Maria? She seemed very pleasant.”

“You mean _good_.” The demon replied with a sneer.

“Eve?” that one he didn’t even bother replying, simply staring at the angel with both eyebrows raised, as if saying ‘ _really_?’. “Right. Better not.”

A few moments passed in silent contemplation.

Picking a name was a difficult affair, when one had a limited imagination and the names that stuck to memory belonged to people with rather unfortunate fates.

Suddenly, the demon finally noticed that the cap was, in fact, a poor mimicry of a lion’s mane, and the opportunity was too funny to pass. “How about Ariel?” It was bit too ethereal for Crowley’s tastes, but that might endear it to Aziraphale – besides, just the thought of naming her after that awful hat made his lips stretch impossibly wide.

“Ariel?” the angel echoed. “Well. It’s… not _bad_. I mean, very noble, that is.” Both stared at her, waiting for a reaction and, thus, they got one; cloudy blue eyes squinted open, and a tiny leg gave a kick.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a devilish smirk. “See? She likes it!”

“Is that true, dear?” Asked the angel as he approached to pick her up. “Are you Ariel? Are you? Yes, you are!” He began to tickle her tummy with one hand while he supported her with the other, until-

“Ugh, the _hell_ is that smell?”


	5. Realization

A routine settled soon enough, with either Crowley or Aziraphale looking after Ariel while the other left to carry out the wills of Heaven and Hell. Although in the beginning they had taken their time to stake out different orphanages – after finding out foundling homes were no longer in use –, their visits started to become less and less frequent, as each and every one of the institutions were deemed insufficient for some reason or another. On top of that, the mere idea of just leaving the baby on some family’s doorstep was equally unappealing for reasons neither of them had been able to articulate, not fully.

Ariel’s carrier had become as much of a fixture in the Bentley as stuffed animals had taken over Aziraphale’s previously-only-used-as-book-storage upstairs, despite the demon’s remarks about what had essentially become a nursery slowly becoming a second Ark. Then there was the fact that they spent most of their free time together, at the bookshop, taking a stroll in the park… but they didn’t address any of it until something unusual happened.

That particular day, Crowley happened to be showing the little goblin how to appreciate a good patch of sunlight, laying on one of the thickest rugs that just so happened to line up with the midday sunrays when the most interesting conversation carried from below.

“And how is Mrs. Fell doing?” _What._

Crowley sprung up from the rug, muscles tensed like a snake about to strike. At his side, Ariel patted his arm in a chastising manner for making the buttons of his vest less accessible, but the abrupt movement did bring attention to his scarf, so the slight was quickly forgotten when grubby little fingers started to pull on it.

Surprised and more than a little intrigued, he took the child to his arms and scooted closer to the banister, careful to remain out of sight.

“Well, erm. Yes, my… wife? Is doing quite alright. Thank you.” was the strained reply from the angel. The serpent tried to recall if he had mentioned a woman in recent times, or if he had ever expressed even the slightest interest in any in the past, but came up blank. The thought of being left out of something like _that_ left a sour taste in his mouth.

Perhaps they weren’t as close as he had come to believe.

“Oh, and where is your little angel? With her mother, I presume?” the increasingly annoying woman inquired, and the demon grimaced at the nickname.

“Little angel.” He muttered mockingly under his breath. “Bah. You are _our_ little goblin.” Crowley informed her seriously, taping the toddler on the chest. “Ababababa.” The infant replied, still yanking on the scarf.

“Oh, y-yes, dear Crowley has her.” And the demon, for the first time he could recall in his long, long existence, had the urge to blink.

Him. And the angel. Joined in holy matrimony? Just where the hell had this random human gotten the idea? But thinking back at the increasingly domestic life they led since they took Ariel in, it was no wonder some of the more simple-minded regulars had gotten assumptions.

Even so, that Aziraphale was going along with it was really, _really_ interesting. A bit insulting, perhaps, because he certainly hadn’t filled the demon in on the development, but revenge had just been presented to him on a silver platter.

A plan already formed in his mind, the demon snatched his sunglasses from the floor, put them on and slinked to the stairs – perhaps with a bit more swagger than usual if Ariel’s delighted giggles were any indication.

The face the angel made when he saw them was already worth it, but Crowley continued with the plan. “Say hello to daddy, Ariel.” He told the kid with a higher-pitched voice, and even added a little bit of gentle manhandling so the kid ‘waved’ at him, and the Principality became more and more flustered by the second. “We’re going to the store,” Crowley shared, “do you want anything, angel?” he finished with a wicked smile. Aziraphale’s panicked shakes of disapproval were a glorious thing to behold, but surely it could be even better?

After setting the toddler on her buggy – the biggest, most inconvenient one money could buy – Crowley approached the still spluttering angel with purpose and, once he was near enough, he leaned in until they were almost cheek to cheek, as if he were going to bestow him with a kiss. “And when were you going to tell me you had made an honest demon out of me, exactly?” he whispered to his ear. “E-erm.” The demon leaned back expectantly, and he watched, amused, as a nice little flush spread on golden skin.

“Crowley!” the angel chided, but directed a nervous smile to the woman that, apparently, was still waiting at the desk. “Now is not the _time_.” He said through gritted teeth.

Revenge properly enacted – for the moment, at least – the demon retreated, and sauntered over to the buggy to push it to the exit. “Ciao, darling, do sell many books!” He offered over his shoulder, a playful smirk stretching his lips.

“Oh, how _dare_ you-!” the outraged cry was cut off by the door slamming closed.

For all the joy teasing the angel gave him, the sudden realization that they were practically raising the kid together hit one Anthony J. Crowley with all the strength of a horse’s kick two streets away from the bookshop.


	6. Compromise

Nobody inside the café would say that the reedy man in sunglasses was having a meltdown, outwardly focused as he was on feeding apple slices to a cherubic-looking toddler while his black coffee went cold, buggy placed smack-dab in the middle of the establishment. This particular man had frequented the place for quite some time – usually to meet up with a local looney, but nobody dared to pry, wary of him for reasons they couldn’t quite put words to. Sometimes, when he wasn’t around, patrons would talk about him in hushed whispers, as if a higher volume would mean there would be _terrible_ consequences. The presence of the baby, while not exactly new, had set the rumor mill all aflutter for months.

Crowley was, of course, unaware of their fleeting, timid glances, with his mind still reeling as it was in a messy circle of repressed _feelings_. He grimaced at that, and a firm mental wall was put in place to keep the nasty emotions away.

The wall crumbled a little bit when a pawing hand enthusiastically demanded more apple. “This is all your fault.” He told her glumly as he gave her another slice. “So what? Jealousy is a very demonic thing, and it’s not like me getting _attached_ matters in the grand scheme of things.” He added with a noncommittal air.

Wide blue eyes appraised the demon curiously, and a part of him felt a tiny bit better for the attention. “Really, world’s going to end anyway, humanity will perish, stars will crash down… and then, then there’s going to be a big, stinky war.” Lowering his face to stare at her better may have been a tactical mistake, because a sticky hand found his nose and patted clumsily.

“Yep. Really. And the angel is going to be on one side, and I’m going to be on the other. Bad business, that.” he went on, as if her gesture had been a perfectly worded inquiry. Something got stuck in his throat. “But you’ll not even be alive anymore at that point, will you, goblin?” Ariel babbled at him, unperturbed by the news of her grim fate. So innocent. He could say anything to her, anything at all, and she’d absorb it like a sponge.

Just like that, the plan he had failed to share with Aziraphale resurfaced. “Unless…” he muttered, then gulped the cold coffee in one shuddering gulp, and flagged the waitress rather impatiently to demand the receipt.

Unfortunately, she was new and felt the need to strike inane small talk. “Aww, your daughter is beautiful, sir. And where’s your mommy?” she had the gall to ask, with that tone of voice generic tasteless adults reserved for children and pets – he was a more than a proud to see Ariel shrinking back from her attentions.

“Her mommy’s right here, you blind idiot.” He hissed venomously, and with that, he placed his goblin on the buggy and strolled off. He was a demon on a mission, and there was something he had to do before finally sharing his plan with the angel. On his wake, a sudden bar fight broke in the previous subdued establishment, their presence all but forgotten.

* * *

Back at the miraculously empty bookshop, Aziraphale paced. He had been pacing for what felt like ages, from the front to the back, sometimes pausing to peek out of the blinds and check the streets for flaming red hair, and every now and again muttering one or two ‘oh dear’ as he did so.

He had known the demon wouldn’t react favorably, had known it after the first time he failed to correct someone when they had simply assumed that they were a couple, stunned as he was by the onslaught of sudden warmth it brought him. It was just such a nice feeling, being able to claim Crowley as his own without the fear of repercussions, that he didn’t even try to deny it when he got his bearings.

Even if the experience was bittersweet and dampened by guilt.

He had to admit, they had relaxed a bit on the subject on finding her a family of her own, perhaps a little bit too much. Over the millennia, the angel had learnt the harsh lesson that it was better to not get overly attached to people, even when loneliness reared its ugly head. Perhaps that was why he had taken so well to his demonic counterpart, latched onto the only constant in an ever-changing world.

But at this point, existence had its days numbered – well, it had always been an abstract concept, but the point remained and, for once, Aziraphale had selfishly clung to the farce and ignored the little voice that told him to be good and let Ariel go, tried to enjoy things until…

“No, better not thread down there.” Aziraphale told himself firmly, and went back to pacing. “I just need.” He said plaintively as he walked away from the door. “I just need to straighten things up with Crowley.” He coached himself, and a tremulous yet hopeful smile graced his lips. “Yes. Everything will return to normal. There is no need to fret.” For all that he tried to remain positive, his perfectly manicured hands worried at his cuffs.

The doorbell ringing alerted him of company, and he hurried to the front in a rather undignified manner, just in time to watch Crowley saunter in, buggy trailing lazily behind him.

“Oh, thank good-“

“Angel, listen, I-“

When it registered both were talking over each other they shut up, and exchanged a series of looks and gestures to indicate the other to start, until Crowley ended the non-verbal argument with an almost aggressive hand motion.

Aziraphale made to start but, as always, the nerves got the better of him. He could feel his corporation’s heart rate rush in his ears, the words getting stuck on his throat. The urge to fidget. “Well, erm. You see. I-I apologize. It was rather rude of me, not. Telling you about. Yes.”

Crowley clasped him by the shoulders, bending down to look at him in the eye. “Okay, I’ll stop you right there, because I think you had the right idea.” he told him in a rush. “Y-you do?” The hands seared him in a decidedly not bad way, and that was _bad_.

Physical contact, Aziraphale knew, had never been a staple in their relationship – in the beginning it had been out of caution, perhaps, the result of not knowing what their conflicting natures would mean. It had remained so until Crowley brought a wicker basket to his bookshop; there was no room for hesitation when there was a baby’s wellbeing on the line, and that meant there had been more contact between them the last few months than the entirety of their assignment on Earth.

Nothing big, thank God, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it otherwise. A brief brush of hands here, when they’d had to hand a fussy baby to the other. Standing shoulder to shoulder over her crib as she slept, the rare times Crowley didn’t sleep himself with her resting on his chest.

On those occasions, the Principality would stand guard on his own, just like he had done what seemed like a lifetime ago as a cherub, only this time he’d hold a book in his hand and not an instrument of war.

“Yes, angel, listen. We’ve been filling in wickedly so far with our goblin, right? Sso. We could do the same with the Antichrist. When he’s old enough, I do my wiling, you do your thwarting, boy ends up normal…” The hands grasping him retreated to gesture enthusiastically. “And humanity goes on.” Right then, Aziraphale finally understood the expression ‘when God closes a door, he opens a window’, because he felt his corporation was able to breathe for the first time since Gabriel’s last fateful visit. For the simplicity of it, the plan seemed faultless!

The serpent was watching him expectantly still, so the angel beamed. “It might just work!” He exclaimed enthusiastically. “There’s no need for a war, is there? And nobody can complain if all we’re doing is what we were sent to do.”

They shook on it, but to Aziraphale’s surprise, there was a tiny box on his palm when they unclasped hands.

At his questioning glance, Crowley said “Jusst. Open it.”

Intrigued, the angel did so, only to find a pair of rings – a broad, flat metal band with a thin one in the middle, one done in silver and gold, the other the exact opposite.

“Crowley, what-“ The mostly silver one was promptly snatched from the box and put on a ring finger. “You began saying we were married, angel. I have standards. We do this, we do it properly.” Brows set in a deep frown, both glanced at the buggy by their side, its single occupant fast asleep.

Wordlessly, Aziraphale slid the remaining ring on the corresponding finger.


End file.
